Give The Cheap Seats a Chance!

Yesterday, I went to see Anvil: The Story of Anvil at the Regency Fairfax. This retro theater in the center of LA offers a $5 matinee price for all shows before 6:00. I remember when it was $3, then $4. Even at five, this is the cheapest show in town. So, here’s the mysterious thing. Hardly anyone is ever there! It was ironic to be watching a documentary about a band who fears performing for pathetically tiny crowds in a theater with two patrons.

Once I got into the theatre, realized there was only one other person besides myself, and began contemplating how much money this for-profit establishment was losing on the screening of this film, I rushed back out to the lobby during previews and bought myself a popcorn, handing at least $4 of straight profit over to management. The popcorn was stale, of course, being there had been no one else to eat it all afternoon.

So, I would like to take this opportunity to ask everyone to patronize their local discount theaters! Please! Before they are gone and we are forced to see films like Anvil or Every Little Step at the Nuart or the Arclight for $14.50 or to wait for them to come out on DVD. These little cheap seats are there to reward you for your patience by slashing prices and making movie-going affordable again! Sure, the air-conditioning is out in theater 2 and the girl loading the projector is also getting your popcorn, but you can see three second-run movies for the price of one first-run release here!

So, what’s keeping you? Take advantage while you can!

I’ll be there again for The New Twenty on Friday night if you want to join me!

If Sidewalks Could Sprout Leaves

I remember reading in 2003 that future wars would be fought over access to clean water. Ever since then, I have been highly conscious of my water usage. If I’m over at your house and you walk away from the sink to grab something out of the refrigerator and leave the water running, I will jump up from the table and shut it off. Or, if I don’t know you that well, I will cringe on the inside and you will lose major points.

The other day, I returned to a neighborhood where I used to live and when I waved to an old neighbor in his yard, he dropped his water hose on the ground, still running full blast, and came over to engage me in a conversation. I couldn’t focus on anything he was saying, as all my attention was drawn to the gallons of water spewing forth onto his cement walkway. I quickly excused myself so that he could get back to what he was doing (watering non-drought tolerant rose bushes).

This encounter, in conjunction with the malfunctioning sprinkler across the street that erupts like Old Faithful onto the sidewalk every morning at 5:00 am, gave me an idea for a grassroots website. www.WaterWasteWatch.com is a place where residents of LA can post reports and photos of local water squanderers and cite their physical address. Visitors to the website are encouraged to then send a polite, concise letter to the offender asking them to fix the problem. Templates are included on the website in order to encourage a consistent message and friendly tone. The website also acts as a resource for the recipient of the letter, where he/she can find assistance in taking action to correct the water misuse problem.

I was all ready to give the idea a go when I visited LADWP.com and saw that they have a Water Conservation Team already in place! I was thrilled. Mission accomplished. Move on to next task. You can either call 1-800-LADWP or you can send an e-mail to waterconservationteam@ladwp.com and make your report. Apparently, they then follow up on these cases, issuing warnings and eventually tickets. They are also proactive about catching water wasters and drive around in a “clearly marked Prius” on the lookout for those breaking the law.

It has been six days since I reported the gushing geyser across the street. It’s still going off. I’m not discouraged. It’s only been four business days and the house is currently uninhabited and undergoing intermittent remodeling. But, I have to wonder…if www.WaterWasteWatch.com existed and I had posted photos and a report there (assuming I had done sufficient work to promote the website), would the owner (also assuming he has mail forwarded from this address or checks it frequently) have already received a small stack of letters encouraging him to make a change for everyone’s sake? Would he have been moved by the peer pressure and made a trip to the house over the weekend to turn the sprinkler system off? Perhaps.

There is another seriously malfunctioning sprinkler system on my street (oh, if driveways too could sprout leaves!) and I will send that report in. If I see that neither of these matters are resolved by the time the summer heat – and inevitable drought – sets in, then expect to see Water Waste Watch go live. And expect some water conservation, grass roots style!

Here's to holding everyone, including ourselves, accountable.

The Keyhole in the Laundromat

Who knows why early childhood memories broadside us at completely random moments? Who knows what jostles the small pocket that houses them just before the minute details of light, color and texture spill out and reconstruct themselves before our mind’s eye?

Today, I was sending an e-mail out at work (something about information technology and outsourcing) and without a moment’s notice, I was six years old at the Laundromat on Main Street , peeping through a keyhole into the apartment in the rear of the store. I have no idea the last time this memory surfaced or, honestly, if it ever has since then, but the emotional clarity that accompanied it was surprisingly sharp.

The Laundromat was in Almena, Wisconsin, population 456. It is where I was born and where I would spend the weekend with my dad after my parents were divorced. My dad didn’t have a washing machine, owing to the fact that he had no running water in his dilapidated home. So, every now and then, we would drive the block and a half up Main Street, past the bar, the post office, and the “supper club” (In those days I viewed this as the fancy place to eat, but if I were to see photos of it today, I would probably shudder at the sight.) to the Laundromat.

While waiting for the clothes to finish, surely I got bored and I think my dad even left me alone once in a while when he went to retrieve his mail from a post office box. I would wander towards a door set in the center of the rear wall, tucked back in a small alcove between soap dispensing machines and hard plastic chairs. In my memory, it’s a thick, glass door with curtains on the reverse side. This is where the elderly owners of the Laundromat lived, although I don’t remember ever actually seeing them. I would get my eye right up to the keyhole – the old-fashioned kind that afforded the peeper a moderately decent view – and I would look inside. What I remember most is the light – filtered and dusty – as if the shades were permanently closed. I remember faded greens and a hint of mauve. I remember heavily textured synthetic fabrics. It was like a museum. A room of steadfast relics, void of movement with an almost dollhouse-like quality. A place very unlike my father’s house.

I think of what I would do as a parent if I found my child peeping into someone’s home through the keyhole. I imagine I would tell them to stop immediately and teach them a lesson about personal privacy. That, to me, seems appropriate. But, how could I ever know what I was robbing them of in doing this? How could I know that I was dispossessing them of a mysterious, magical flashback twenty years down the road on a day when they need it most.

It’s amazing to ponder this collection of moments. The keyhole at the Laundromat segues into playing 301 with my dad at the bar next door, drinking Shirley Temples and playing Rosanne Cash’s Tennessee Flat Top Box over and over again on the jukebox. These images, however convoluted or gussied up they’ve become over time, are our histories and when they pop up and give us a jolt like mine did this morning, I know it’s a signal that the time has come for me to tell that part of my story, lest I let it slip away and it chooses not to return to me again in this lifetime. How many moments have already done this? How many memories will not return again before our last day on earth? A great many, I suppose. There’s only room for so many thoughts in our heads. But, as long as they choose to surprise me here and there, root me, and make me grateful for the path I have traveled, then I will honor them by putting the words, as best I can, down on paper.

Here's to telling your story.